


Curse of the Kouroi

by fleurofthecourt



Category: White Collar
Genre: Ambiguously Supernatural, F/M, Gen, Hallucinations, Pneumonia, Pre-OT3, Pre-Slash, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-21
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:44:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurofthecourt/pseuds/fleurofthecourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Neal and Peter take on a case involving forged, and possibly cursed, Egyptian statues, Mozzie, at least, is convinced that Neal himself has been cursed when he falls ill shortly thereafter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story is set in the future. No particular reason.

"James Bonds and Robin Hoodie were bad enough. But Chicago Jones? It doesn't even sound like he's a criminal, which I suppose he isn't since he may not have even known they were forgeries...but it's still confusing," Neal said as he and Peter walked down the street in the quiet Chicago suburb.

"Two Jones too many, huh?" Peter nodded and chuckled as he continued looking at the house numbers.

"Just because I said he was a regular Indiana Jones didn't mean we should call him that," Neal continued.

"Face it, Neal, the moment you took the job at the bureau, you became one of us."

"I may have traded my anklet for a real FBI badge, but that doesn't mean I want to forget my previous reputation. Besides, we both know that I'm on the verge of losing this badge at least once every two weeks."

"Well, that's true enough," Peter commented lightly as he stopped. "I think this is the one we're looking for."

The house was in a subdivision where all the homes look the same down to the perfect black mailbox with a little red flag. This particular residence had distinguished itself from its uniform neighbors with a flag pole supporting an American flag as well as a local sports' team flag and some assorted tacky garden art. Nothing about the yard or unassuming house suggested the wealth of the owner. Peter walked up to the door and rapped steadily on it.

After a minute, they heard shuffling as well as a light tapping sound along the floor inside. A man with a pronounced limp opened the door. Peter began to dig his FBI badge out of his pocket, but the man ushered them in with his cane, "Come in, come in, it's too cold out there for you to stand in the doorway. Whatever business you want to discuss can be done in the living room."

Peter and Neal, although they were a little startled at the welcome, followed the man inside.

"Mr. Campbell, I presume?" Neal offered his hand to the man. The man shook Neal's proffered hand gently, "I'm Neal Caffrey, Consulting Agent for the FBI , and this is my partner, Special Agent Peter Burke."

"Consulting Agent?" The man asked, a little baffled.

"I have the field experience, just not the credentials. I've been a consultant for the White Collar Crime Division for the past four years," Neal explained. Although Neal could not become an actual agent because of his criminal past, after quite a bit of arguing, the Bureau had agreed to let him introduce himself as a Consulting Agent. And since this was the first case on which he was allowed to do so, Neal did not waste the opportunity. Peter was silently thankful for that since he was sure Neal would do something slightly more impromptu next time.

"Now, Mr. Campbell, we are here to ask you about the collection of Egyptian art that you donated to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, " Peter pulled a paper out of his briefcase and perused it for a moment, "It says here that you donated three small statuettes done in Attic Greek style but of Egyptian provenance."

"I donated those anonymously," Mr. Campbell huffed, his demeanor suddenly becoming agitated. "How did you find out about them?"

"Although I suspect you already know this, I'll tell you anyway. The museum never put them on display because the inconsistency in style suggested that they could have been forgeries. However, in the past week, an expert came forward claiming they could prove the authenticity of the works. The next day, the pieces were mysteriously missing. What we need to know from you is where you obtained the pieces."

"They're missing?" Mr. Campbell asked, suddenly looking horrified. He glanced cautiously around the living room. Then he began muttering more to himself than to Peter and Neal, "Probably coming back to haunt me. They will never stop haunting me."

"I'm sorry, haunt you, how?" Peter asked.

Before Mr. Campbell had a chance to answer, Neal interjected, "Did you know something suspicious about the statuettes?"

"Yes," He said matter-of-factly. "They were cursed."


	2. Chapter 2

Peter and Neal exchanged wary glances.

"Excuse me, cursed?" Peter asked.

"As in damned by the Egyptian gods?" Neal added.

"Exactly," Mr. Campbell replied, just as matter-of-factly as before.

"Would you care to elaborate?" Peter suggested.

"I'm sure you'll think I'm just a crazy old man, but I got rid of those damn statues for a reason. I thought when they were out of my house all of my problems would stop. But apparently they're determined to wheedle their way back into my life. I don't want anything to do with this."

"We're not trying to inconvenience you. We're just trying to learn as much about the art as we can so that we can finish our investigation. First, where did you obtain the art?"

"I'll answer your questions if you promise not to show up here again. I never want to hear about this art again," Mr. Campbell said softly.

"We're a little out of our way, so I don't think you have to worry about us coming back."

"Where I obtained them then," Mr. Campbell began. "A few months ago, I went to Egypt. It's a very dirty country; I wouldn't recommend a vacation there. No one speaks a word of English. And I certainly wasn't learning Egyptian. Not to mention the cars and the people. They were everywhere, all the time. It was maddening."

"Did you find the art in Egypt then?"

"I was getting to that," Mr. Campbell said, rubbing at his forehead as though trying to remember. "On my last day there, I went into a shop. Well as into a shop as one can go in Egypt. It seems like they're all half outside. I don't understand how the Egyptians live. I'm certainly never going back there. But anyway, since I'd gone to Egypt, I decided I'd be damned if I didn't come back with a souvenir. And I wanted it to be a decent one. I tried to barter with the local riff-raff over the generic Egypt memorabilia. But they always started too high, and at this point in the trip, I really just wanted to go home. Then I saw a young American guy setting up wares that seemed to be mainly art pieces. I went over to look at them. He would have been a handsome young man except he had one of those goatee things and an earring in one ear. His appearance made me a little uncomfortable. " Mr. Campbell shook his head," But anyway, he seemed to know a lot about the pieces. He told me a wonderful story about the statues. I finally offered to buy them; he didn't barter with me at all. In fact, it seemed like he suddenly couldn't get them out of his hands quickly enough. I should have realized then there was something wrong."

"And what made you suspect the art was cursed?" Neal asked.

"Although I didn't think much of it at the time, my flight out of Egypt was delayed. Then all of my luggage was lost. At the time, I thought it was fortunate that my souvenirs, at least, were in my carry-on. Foolish me. Not long after I returned home, things in my house started ending up in strange places. And the statues, I would always leave them on my mantle. And every couple days, all three statues would be in different parts of the house. One on my dresser, one on my sink, and one on my banister, just as an example. Then, every now and again, the lights in this room would flicker intermittently. But the last straw for me was the day I broke my leg. I had just been putting the cursed things back on the mantle, with their beady almond shaped eyes seeming to haunt me, and the power went out in the whole house. I was heading for the fuse box, and I tripped over one of the statues. One of the statues I had just put on the mantle."

Peter and Neal tried their best to look a little shocked, but they did not find Mr. Campbell's story as compelling as he did.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" Peter asked. "Did you find out the name of the American vendor? Do you remember the name of the shop?"

"I don't remember the names or anything, but I do have a picture of the shop. Let me find it," Mr. Campbell abruptly walked out of the room to find the picture. He came back shortly, shuffling through a small stack of photos. "I know it's in here somewhere. Ah, here it is."

Mr. Campbell set the picture on the table, and Neal leaned over to examine it, "May I?"

"You can have the picture if you want it; I didn't realize those damn statues were in it."

"Are they here in this corner?" Neal asked, pointing to the corner of a table that seemed to be otherwise covered in well-done miniatures of various Egyptian gods and goddesses. As Mr. Campbell nodded, Neal ventured one further question, "And do you see the gentleman that sold the statues to you?"

Mr. Campbell looked closely at the picture; there were only a few people in it, most of them clearly Egyptian. Then Mr. Campbell pointed at a man who had had his back to the camera, "That's him. Look, he's got an earring in his left ear."

"Well that's something to go on. Are you sure you don't mind if we take the picture with us?" Peter asked.

"Not at all. I'm quite willing to part with it."

"In that case, I think we've learned enough from you. If you think of anything else we might need to know, give us a call," Peter said, offering Mr. Campbell a business card.


	3. Chapter 3

"I think we're having about as much luck with airports today as Mr. Campbell had on his way back from Egypt," Peter muttered as he sat down next to Neal who was already staring out the window.

"Even though the flight has already been delayed, it sounds like we're going to be sitting here for a while before the plane takes off," Neal said.

"Are you going to be okay?" Peter asked. He was afraid that being grounded, surrounded by planes might bring up some traumatic memories.

"Yeah," Neal answered coolly, but the pallor of his skin suggested that that might not be completely true. "I'm going to compare the photo Mr. Campbell gave to us to the photos from the Met. The photos from the museum don't have the statues together so that could be something."

Peter watched Neal with some concern as he dug the photos out of his briefcase. Then he leaned back in his seat to review the case file. After they had been working quietly for some time, Neal set the photos aside and leaned his forehead against the glass in the window.

"Neal? Do you have something?"

"Nothing concrete. One of the statues might be taller than the other two, but I can't concentrate," Neal said sitting up with a frustrated sigh.

"I can get us off this plane if you need me to," Peter said reassuringly. However, upon saying that, the pilot announced that they were ready for take off, and the plane began taxi-ing towards the runway.

"Don't worry, Peter. It's not that. I'm just feeling a little under the weather."

"Now that you mention it, your eyes look kind of glassy," Peter said after looking Neal over. Then, as he started to place the palm of his hand over Neal's forehead, he received a resentful look from Neal. Peter gave an equally resentful look back and proceeded with his original plan. "You do feel feverish. Let me see if I can find some medicine in my briefcase. I know El put something in there."

After waiting for the plane to finish its ascent, Peter pulled a divider out of his briefcase and handed two small tablets to Neal.

"Thank you, Dr. Peter." Neal said with a hint of sarcasm. "Can we go back to working on the case now?"

"Wouldn't you rather try to sleep?"

"No," Neal answered shortly. Then seeing the worried look on Peter's face, added, "Planes make me anxious, you saw that on the way out here; I couldn't sleep if I tried."

"We'll just talk about the case then," Peter offered. Then after a thoughtful pause, "I'm curious. Do your stories usually convince people to buy artwork?"

"What makes you think I'd have an answer for that?"

"Come on, Neal." Peter rolled his eyes. But then relented, "Have you told these kind of stories before?"

"If I had, they would have worked," Neal said with a grin. "I can give you an example if you want. It should make this plane ride less tedious."

"What kind of story would you have told Mr. Campbell?"

"Well, I most likely would have told him a love story involving the statues."

"Those statues all depict men. And I don't think Mr. Campbell would be interested in that kind of love story."

"Do you think the man who thinks the Egyptians speak Egyptian would be able to tell that? First rule of storytelling, know your audience," Neal said. "Also, I never said the statues represented the characters."

"Then how would the statues play into the story?"

"They're a special treasure to an Egyptian princess," Neal started.

"Special how?"

"They're part of a suitor competition."

"What kind of competition?"

"Would you like to ask questions or hear the story?"

"I'll stop interrupting."

"Good," Neal said. Then he rested his head against the seat and began, "There was an Egyptian princess who did not want to marry for she wished to rule alone. In order to fulfill this wish, she claimed that only a suitor capable of bringing her the kingdom's greatest treasure would be able to marry her. However, she believed that this was impossible.

In her eyes, the greatest treasure that her kingdom possessed was three small statues, which were not valuable merely for the marble they were made out of, but also for the priceless gems that covered their eyes. But more importantly for the princess, they had sentimental value because they had been sculpted for her by her younger brother before he had died. These statues had been concealed in a stone building that was attached to her palace by an architect that she considered a friend.

Unbeknownst to her, the architect had begun designing the building in such a way as to be able to easily lift the stones off and take the treasure, for he was in love with the princess. Since he realized the princess did not feel the same way and would easily see through his plan, he worked on making the stone building seemingly more and more impenetrable so that he could continue to be involved in the princess' daily life.

However, a thief had begun watching the architect, and suspecting his charade, wondered if he would be able to break into the stone building. He began posing as a palace guard and worked on becoming friends with the architect so he could learn which stones could be loosened easily."

"You would con someone with a story about a con? Why am I not surprised?"

"Con-men are very useful for getting people to take things in stories. If it weren't for Odysseus, the Trojans never would have taken that horse."

"True," Peter agreed with a hint of annoyance. "So the thief was in love with the princess?"

"Why else would he want to break into the stone room?"

"Just to prove he could do it," Peter suggested with a knowing glance.

"I guess that's possible," Neal said after musing for moment. "But he was in love with the princess. And after a few days, he had seen the architect working on the seemingly impenetrable room enough times to know where to find the weak spots. Then under cover of night, he broke in without difficulty. The next morning he went to the princess.

"'Princess, I have brought to you what you believe is the kingdom's greatest treasure,'" the thief told her extending the statues out to her.

"'What I think is the greatest treasure? Do you mean to say that there is a greater treasure in the kingdom?'" she asked.

"'Indeed, Princess," the thief answered. "But I am unable to bring the greatest treasure to you."

"'And why is that?'"

""Because you are the greatest treasure in the kingdom,'" the thief explained. Then the princess and the thief lived happily ever after," Neal finished.

"Good story. It wouldn't have sold the pieces to me though because now I feel bad for the architect."

"I thought you might. Maybe the architect put a curse on the statues; it certainly would have interrupted their happily ever after," Neal laughed.

"Indeed. You would probably want to leave that part out when trying to sell the the art though."

"As Mr. Campbell's seller apparently did," Peter and Neal were both laughing at this thought.


	4. Chapter 4

"It's open," Neal sputtered between coughing fits as Peter knocked on the door at June's. Peter walked in to find Neal and Mozzie sitting at opposite ends of the table in the middle of his apartment. Peter looked back and forth between each of them quizzically but went and set a bag down next to Neal. Then he walked over to the cabinets and began rooting through them.

"Peter, tell me this isn't chicken soup," Neal muttered. He didn't really need an answer since he could smell the contents, but he wanted the confirmation.

"El wasn't letting me leave the house without it. She also said if we were going to work even though you're sick that I'm to make sure you eat it," Peter gave Neal a meaningful look as he said this. "Now, if I could just find your silverware."

"Elizabeth. I should have know," Neal smiled and looked up. "Peter, you've been here how many times? How do you not know where my silverware is?"

"Eureka!" Peter said as he opened another drawer. Then he walked over to set a spoon beside Neal. Then he looked back at Mozzie and Neal, "You two are rather quiet. Not up to something, are you?"

"Mozzie is avoiding me," Neal explained, as he loosened the blanket he had wrapped around him to pick up the spoon. "He's convinced that I'm now a victim of the curse. Doomed to die at any moment."

"You're not serious?" Peter asked. Neal merely nodded in reply as he had begun eating Elizabeth's soup. Peter turned to Mozzie, "If you're avoiding Neal, why are you still in his apartment?"

"I'm only avoiding Neal, not his wine supply. The curse would only be transmitted by physical contact anyway. So as long as we don't physically interact with him, we should be fine," Mozzie rationalized. "Don't sit too close to him."

"I did just ride a plane sitting next to him, so any damage that is done is done. So I'm glad we've cleared that up," Peter said.

"You may laugh, Suit. But I think you'll find that the dozens of people that died of mysterious fevers after entering King Tut's tomb will find that Egyptian curses are no laughing matter."

"There were many people that went into King Tut's tomb that lived to tell the tale to their grandchildren," Peter countered. "Besides, I think it's generally accepted that there was some kind of bacteria in the tomb that made those people sick."

"The bacteria was part of the curse, obviously."

"Are you going to believe anything I say about this?"

Before Mozzie could answer, there was another knock on the door.

"Enter at your own risk," Mozzie said.

"It's so nice to see you too, Mozzie," Sara said as she walked into the apartment.

"I was only trying to warn you away. We are in the midst of a curse."

"You can't warn me away from here unless we have somewhere else to go," Sara said shortly.

"I've offered to write you a sonnet."

"For the last time, I'm not following clues to find you. If you can't just tell me..." Sara trailed off.

"They still haven't told each other where they live?" Peter asked Neal.

"They're still having some trust issues," Neal answered.

"Sounds familiar," Peter said.

"We're right here," Mozzie said as he and Sara sat down across from Peter and Neal.

"I know. You're both always here," Neal said sullenly. Then he rested his head on the table.

"Neal, are you really up to working on the case right now?" Peter asked.

"I'm fine," Neal answered.

Peter looked at him without conviction, but proceeded to ask, "Do you have any further thoughts on the art from Mr. Campbell's photo?"

"My conclusions are a little patchier than usual. But there are some stylistic differences between the statues. Two of them are identical and the third one is little bit taller. If you look closely, you can see that the patterning of the hair is closer together. The strands seem finer. It also looks like parts of the eyes were chipping off the taller statue," Neal explained, coughing intermittently.

"I wondered if you'd catch that," Peter said. "While I was at the office, I learned from the museum that the expert that came forward showed the museum two gems that would have been inlaid in the eyes. I seem to recall the statue in your story having similar …eye-wear."

"Peter, what are you," Neal started, began coughing and finished, "implying?"

"That cough is wearing on your charm," Peter commented. "Anyway, the museum now believes that the gems would help prove the authenticity of the kouros."

"And there were traces of marble on the gemstones?" Neal prompted.

"Exactly," Peter replied. "The same kind of marble that was used on the kouros."

"Does the museum have the gems?" Sara asked.

"They did. Now they're being stored in the FBI evidence room until further notice," Peter said.

"Worried someone might be coming back for them?" Neal asked.

"Just the opposite actually," Peter answered. "We have reason to believe the thief didn't know that the gems were still in the museum when he took the kouroi. But he should have reason to believe it now."

Peter pulled out a flier announcing that two precious gems would be on display in the Egyptian collection starting the next day.

"You're providing an opportunity for the thief to take the gems? Forged ones, I'm assuming?" Sara asked.

"Precisely."

"You forged gems without our help?" Mozzie asked, gesturing at himself and Neal, looking slightly hurt.

"Well, actually," Peter said, "we did. But I was hoping you would take a look at them."

He reached into his briefcase to pull out two small blue gems and set them on the table.

Mozzie, Sara, and Neal were barely able to register the intense blue shading of the stones before all of the lights in the apartment went out.


	5. Chapter 5

Although they were mostly unfazed by the blackout, there was one barely audible gasp of surprise. This stood to reason as it wasn't storming, and there hadn't been rolling blackouts to speak of.

Peter moved gingerly towards the balcony, "It looks like it's at least the whole block. There's no street lights on that I can see."

"There were blackouts in Cairo after the discovery of King Tut's tomb too. This is no coincidence."

"I'm sure we can find a reasonable explanation, Moz," Sara said, placing her hand on his shoulder.

"Let me hear this again when everyone else that's seen those statues comes down with a mysterious fever."

"Moz, it's not that mysterious," Neal said.

"So you've been to a doctor that can prove that?" Mozzie asked.

"Well, no. But I'd expect you to be the last person to suggest that."

Sara and Peter exchanged glances, not sure what to do with their friends.

"Neal, is there a flashlight or a candle somewhere in here?" Sara asked.

"Third drawer down on the left," Neal answered, fruitlessly gesturing towards the cabinets in the now pitch black room.

"That doesn't really help," Peter said as he felt his way across the room and began pulling drawers open again.

"Too bad you didn't find a flashlight when you went through every one of those drawers earlier," Neal laughed.

As Peter began swearing under his breath, seemingly indicating he had hit his elbow against one of the cabinets, a light unexpectedly appeared on the table.  
"Is that the same lantern you brought me when we were looking through the archives?" Sara asked.

"Perhaps," Mozzie answered.

"And you just happened to have it here?"

"You never know when you're going to be asked to look for things during a blackout. Be it gems or aged documents."

"And you couldn't have told me you had that all along?" Peter asked, coming back over to the table, making a show of rubbing his elbow, but also holding a flashlight.

"Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness," Mozzie said sagely.

"It's a lantern," Peter stated. Mozzie looked at him in a way that suggested what he had said made perfect sense and promptly turned his attention to Neal who was already studying the stones, despite the dim lighting.

"They're good," Neal said hesitantly.

"But?" Peter prompted.

"They don't have traces of marble on them," Mozzie said, "which is what you're using as bait for the unsuspecting. Am I right?"

"Can that be fixed?"

"Easily, actually. It doesn't need to be actual marble since, presumably, they're going to be in a glass case where most won't be able to look too closely. Moz, do you still have those plaster molds?"

"Yes. Suit, if you trust me with the stones, I can have them looking like they were ripped right off the statue by morning."

"As long as they weren't..." Peter said.

" 'It is more shameful to distrust our friends than to be deceived by them'," Mozzie said, then after a pause added, "Confucius."

"I don't think Peter believes that," Neal commented.

"Being friends with conmen makes distrust and deception a very fine line," Peter said with a sigh. He looked as though he had more to say on the subject, but as he looked at Neal, who was resting his head on the table again, decided not to and changed the subject, "Sara, Sterling Bosch has insured works at the museum, doesn't it?"

"Usually works that are on loan to the museum," Sara answered.

"Would it be possible for you to run an audit on pieces in the Egyptian collection? Say tomorrow?"

"I believe that could be arranged," Sara replied. "But what are you going to do?"

"You need an expert on Egyptian artifacts," Neal suggested, looking hopefully up at Peter.

"Neal, you are half asleep at a table while talking about art forgery at seven in the evening; you're not going anywhere."

"Fair enough," Neal said resignedly. "Perhaps someone could pose as the owner of the gems."

"I think I could do that," Peter said with an air of certainty.

"Only if someone else chooses your suit..." Neal said.

Ignoring Neal, Peter asked, "Sara, do you want to meet me at the museum before the stones are put on display? You can look through the Egyptian display, and I can watch the special exhibit to see if our thief is interested in coming back for the evidence that one of the statues is real."

"Who would come back for a cursed statue?" Mozzie asked.

"Someone who didn't think it was cursed," Peter replied shortly, then added seriously, "And wants to fence or more likely forge the genuine article."

"How are you and Sara going to be able to tell if someone intends to come back for the stones?"

"Sara and I spend half our time with you two," Peter said, gesturing at him and Neal. "Do you think we haven't learned anything?"

" But Mozzie clearly doesn't trust us with this or anything else," Sara said with a sharp glance at Mozzie.

"An armadillo should not tell a turtle he is too hard shelled," Mozzie replied. Since he had realized Sara wasn't really upset about the museum, he added, "You are putting up as many if not more walls about where you live as I am about where I live. And you know it."

Sara looked as though she wanted to argue the point, but instead she began to storm out of the apartment, stopping in the doorway momentarily as she realized there was no light in the hallway. Mozzie picked up the lantern as well as the stones and followed her, "Sara, wait. I'll walk you out."

Neal and Peter listened momentarily as the two of them continued to argue as they made their way out of the building, then Neal turned to Peter,"You should probably go too."

Peter turned on the flashlight and looked over at Neal. He had the blanket pulled around him fully again, but he appeared to be shivering beneath it.

"Neal, where's your coat?" Peter asked.

"Huh?" Neal looked up at Peter, confused.

"It's the middle of winter, and you don't know when the power is going to come back on. There's no heat on in here, and you're shivering. On top of which, June is out of town. I'm not letting you stay here. You can stay in the guest bedroom at my house," Peter explained. Then he asked again, "Where's your coat?"

"I can take care of myself," Neal replied, coughing between words.

"Never said you couldn't," Peter said. Then added, "Perhaps you could help me pick a suit out in the morning and make sure Mozzie brings those precious gems back to me."

"Fine. I'll get my coat," Neal said as he got up, and he walked towards the couch in the back corner as Peter shined the flashlight in the same general direction. The two of them then collected a few more things of Neal's, and then headed out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter was sitting at his kitchen table looking over a file on the museum's display when Elizabeth walked in the door.

"I see you beat me home tonight," Elizabeth said as walked over to kiss him. Then she asked, "Does this mean you caught a bad guy today?"

"Still working on that," Peter replied. "I did bring Neal home with me. Does that count?"

"It really doesn't. I think we both know Neal has given up on getting himself in over his head," Elizabeth replied. "Where is he?"

"Asleep, in the guest bedroom. Hopefully," Peter said. "I brought him back with me because power went out at June's. It's strange though. The power went out everywhere within about two miles of June's brownstone. And according to news reports, no one knows why. At least not yet."

"Not Neal's two mile radius?" Elizabeth asked, suspicious.

"No. He doesn't have a tracking anklet anymore, remember? But even so, it wouldn't have been exactly his radius. Just an odd coincidence, I guess," Peter said.

"That's an interesting coincidence."

"Yeah," Peter said, rubbing at his forehead. "Fortunately, I have other things to worry about. I'm going undercover at the museum tomorrow."

"As?" Elizabeth asked.

"A man wealthy enough to loan the Met some rather stunning, but regrettably fake, gems," Peter replied.

"Oh? Do I get to see these gems?" Elizabeth asked.

"Well, right now, Mozzie has them; we may never see them again," Peter replied.

"He'll show them to me; I'm sure," Elizabeth said. "Does this mean you need some help finding a suit?"

"Why does no one one trust me to pick my own clothes?" Peter asked.

"Honey, I think it's because you pick too many ties in primary colors," Elizabeth started, then decided from Peter's sour expression that he didn't want to hear her honest opinion on the matter, "I take it Neal wasn't trusting you on this either?"

"Surprisingly," Peter replied. Elizabeth looked at him skeptically for a moment before Peter continued, "Considering that he was half asleep all evening."

"Worried about him, huh?" Elizabeth asked.

"For different reasons than usual," Peter said. "I think he was delirious when I half led, half dragged him upstairs. He tried to start singing, but it's difficult to sing while coughing."

"I'm kind of sad I missed this," Elizabeth laughed, despite herself. "What was he singing?"

" 'Witchcraft,' I think," Peter answered.

"Classic Sinatra, huh?"

"You know Neal."

"Well, despite the fact that I find this really amusing, I think possible delirium calls for a possible doctor's visit."

"Probably not a bad idea," Peter agreed.

***

"Mrs. Suit," Mozzie said, as he greeted Elizabeth at the door the next morning. Then he held a small box out to her, "I think your husband might be looking for these."

"And to think you didn't think he'd bring them back," Elizabeth said to Peter as he walked downstairs, holding his suit jacket over his shoulder.

"Anything could be in that box," Peter said, shrugging his shoulders.

"This is no Pandora's box, Suit," Mozzie said, opening the lid to reveal blue gems that would have been completely stunning if it weren't for the traces of plaster running across the back.

"Thanks, Mozzie," Peter said as he took the box. "I really do appreciate it."

"Glad to be of service at the end of our days," Mozzie said.

Peter fixed Mozzie with a confused stare, "What does that mean?"

"The curse has reached you and myself by now, I'm sure; I'm sorry to say," Mozzie said as way of explanation.

"I'm sorry; I'm still confused," Peter said.

"The evidence is in front of your house," Mozzie said.

"I think what he's trying to tell us is that the old maple tree across the street finally fell down; it looks like it just missed your car," Elizabeth said, poking her head out the door. "But what curse?"

"Mozzie, you can fill my wife in with the details of your latest conspiracy theory; I'm going to meet your girlfriend," Peter said. Then he leaned in to kiss Elizabeth, "Have a good day, hon."

"You too, hon," she said as he walked out the door. "Be careful going around that tree."

After she watched Peter's Taurus successfully wind around the fallen maple, Elizabeth turned to Mozzie, "Moz, I'm sensing that this is a conversation that we should have over tea; why don't you come in the kitchen with me?"

"I couldn't ask you to do that, but I'd like my tea with a little bit of honey and cookies if you have them," Mozzie said as he followed her.

"Don't worry about troubling me," Elizabeth said, smirking slightly. "I already made tea for Neal."

"Neal's here?" Mozzie asked.

"The power at June's didn't come back on after you and Sara left last night," Elizabeth said, nodding.

"Of course, it didn't; it's all part of the curse on everyone who has possessed or is investigating these statues," Mozzie said.

"Mozzie, I'm not sure I follow," Elizabeth said. "Why would there be a curse on people investigating the statues, but who haven't actually touched or even seen them?"

"Why wouldn't there be?" Mozzie asked.

Elizabeth tilted her head and looked at Mozzie in a way that suggested this was not the best explanation.

"Fine. I suspect the statues were originally taken by grave robbers, and consequently, the spirits of the Egyptian dead won't rest unless they are returned."

"Hmm."

"You don't believe me?"

"I believe that you believe that. But, is it possible that you're reading too much into things?"

"I'm not saying it's impossible. But I think the unlucky circumstances of the last two days are best explained by a curse."

"I suppose we'll have to see how things play out then," Elizabeth said.

"I'd rather not," Mozzie said skeptically. "Besides, curse aside, I think there's a decent chance things will go awry today."

"What makes you say that?" Elizabeth asked.

"Your husband is attempting to pick a conman out of a crowd at a museum display while trying to pull off an aristocratic air sans Neal," Mozzie explained.

"It's Peter's job to catch people like this thief; I'm sure he'll be fine," Elizabeth said confidently.

"We're both talking about the man who let Neal brazenly talk to him outside of a bank? The same bank that he was investigating forged bonds at? His skills in reading people are occasionally lax."

"Occasionally is not always; I think you should have a little more faith in my husband," Elizabeth said.

"Perhaps under normal circumstances I would," Mozzie said.

"Curse free circumstances?" Elizabeth asked.

"Precisely," Mozzie said. "The odds of things going smoothly are lowly. Especially considering they're at a museum. The museum from which the cursed art came from."

"Mozzie, if you're that worried, why don't you go look at the display as well?" Elizabeth asked.

"If I'm not already cursed somehow, I certainly would be after doing that," Mozzie said.

"Suit youself. But in the hopes that the art isn't cursed, and we're all still alive on Friday, how would you and Sara like to join Peter, Neal, and I for dinner? " Elizabeth asked.

"Certainly, assuming Neal, Peter, and Sara are not cursed" Mozzie agreed, then added with a sigh, "and assuming Sara would come with me."

"Why wouldn't she?" Elizabeth asked.

"She's upset that I won't tell her where I live. Apparently, being able to meet at Neal's is not sufficient. But when I offered to write her a sonnet with directions, she refused them. Then when I walked her out last night, she wouldn't talk to me," Mozzie explained.

"Mozzie, I don't think cursed Egyptian art should be your greatest concern at the moment," Elizabeth said.

"I can't just tell someone where I live," Mozzie said. "It's privileged information."

"Don't you trust her?" Elizabeth asked.

"Well, yes," Mozzie replied.

"Then it seems like it shouldn't be an issue," Elizabeth said.

"Perhaps not," Mozzie said, looking somewhat unconvinced. Then he stood up from the table and began to walk back towards the front door, "Well, Mrs. Suit, thank you for the tea. But I believe I have some business to attend to."

"Some business?" Elizabeth asked.

"I need to help some friends find some things they've been looking for," Mozzie said cryptically.

"Bye, Mozzie," Elizabeth said as she nodded knowingly in response.


	7. Chapter 7

Not long after Mozzie left, there was another knock on the Burkes' door. Neal, who Elizabeth had thought was asleep in the guest room, nearly walked into her as he made to answer the door.

"Neal, why aren't you upstairs?" Elizabeth asked with a hint of concern. "Why don't you go lay down on the couch?"

"Where's Peter?" Neal asked looking at Elizabeth with a dazed expression and without waiting for an answer walked into the living room. As he walked away, Elizabeth gave him a worried look before opening the door.

"Hi, Jill. How are you? I hope you didn't have any trouble with that big tree that fell down," Elizabeth said as she ushered her friend inside.

"Oh, it was fine; nothing like an added obstacle to parking in New York," Jill said with a grin.

"I really appreciate this," Elizabeth said. "I know it's a little out of the way for you."

"I told you not to worry about it; I was planning on coming into the city sometime this week anyway. You'll just have to help me look for a wedding dress later on," Jill said.

"What kind of a friend slash wedding planner would I be if I didn't?"

"A smart one; I'm going to go through a million dresses. But don't worry, my fiance's assistant is coming to help me look too," Jill said.

"I still can't believe I haven't met him," Elizabeth said.

"That's what happens when two doctors date; they very rarely have free time at the same time. And on that note, where's my patient?"

Elizabeth led Jill into the living room where Neal was sitting on the couch, looking thoroughly miserably.

"Jill, I'd like you to meet my husband's partner," Elizabeth said.

"The infamous Neal Caffrey?" Jill asked with a knowing smile.

"You've told your friends I'm infamous?" Neal asked, perking up slightly. "I'm not sure if I should be honored or offended."

"Probably a little of both," Elizabeth said as she leaned down to brush a few stray hairs away from Neal's eyes. "Well, Neal, would you like to dispel Mozzie's curse theories once and for all?"

"I really don't think that's possible," Neal replied. "But for your friend here, I suppose we could try. Just tell me she won't drug or handcuff me."

"Neal, since you didn't break into Jill's office, I don't think you have anything to worry about," Elizabeth said. As Jill gave Elizabeth a quizzical look, she commented, "It's a long story. Just remember you're dealing with a semi-reformed con-man."

"Semi-reformed? Elizabeth, that's hardly fair," Neal remarked.

"Neal, the things you do to help the bureau often fall in a grey area," Elizabeth said. Then she turned to Jill, "Before he even considers giving you an inadequate description of his symptoms, I'll tell them to you. He's been lethargic, and Peter and I have been giving him fever reducers and cough suppressants. Last time I took his temperature it was 102 degrees. That was a couple hours ago though. I'll leave you to examine him on your own though," Elizabeth said as she made her way back into the kitchen. "I have a few phone calls to make about an event I'm catering next week."

Neal's eyes followed Elizabeth out of the room as Jill began asking him probing questions. Although he was loath to admit it, he would have preferred she stayed. When Jill seemed to be done examining him, Neal asked, "Well, Jill, have I been cursed?"

"I can't say you haven't been cursed, but I can give you a probable diagnosis. How does that sound?" Jill replied.

"Like it's something I don't want to hear," Neal said.

"It looks like you have pneumonia," Jill said, ignoring Neal's comment.  
"That wasn't something I wanted to hear," Neal said.

"Just keep resting, drink lots of fluids, and take these antibiotics I'm prescribing for you, and you should start to feel better in a few days. And if you don't, call me back."

"Neal, you can stay here for a few days," Elizabeth said as she peeked into the living room and gestured for Jill to follow her into the kitchen. Neal nodded; the charisma he'd used when Jill first came in seemed to have drained him. He listened half-heartedly as Jill and Elizabeth chatted on their way out of the room their voices becoming more and more faint.

"Did you catch all of that?" Jill asked Elizabeth.

"Yeah. I'll take that prescription to get it filled when I meet Peter for lunch," Elizabeth said.

"Sounds like a good idea," Jill said. Then she asked, "Is there really someone who thinks that Neal's cursed?"

"Our friend Mozzie is big on conspiracy theories and right now Peter and Neal are investigating a crime involving Egyptian art," Elizabeth replied.

"He'd love to hear about my car accident a few years ago then," Jill mused.

"Yeah, he would," Elizabeth said.

A few hours later, Neal woke up to the sound of a frazzled looking Peter coming back from the museum. Peter stood in the entryway taking off his shoes, which if Neal had been looking, would have revealed an amusing Christmas gift of socks from Elizabeth, and dusting snow off his coat.

"Hey, hon," Elizabeth said as she walked downstairs and kissed Peter. "How did it go at the museum?"

"It could have gone better," He replied. "Sara and I were just looking out for anyone who looked suspiciously interested in our gem display. We didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Then something set off the alarm in the private collection so I stayed with the gems while Sara went to talk to the curator. Who would break into a museum in broad daylight?"

"Anyone that doesn't want to get caught," Neal shouted hoarsely.

"It was a rhetorical question," Peter said as he walked into the living room set his briefcase on the coffee table and sat down on the arm of the couch. Elizabeth followed him and sat down in the chair.

"But it shouldn't have been. If you steal something in broad daylight and set off the alarm in a different part of the museum, you can disappear into the crowd with no one the wiser," Neal rationalized.

"I'm just going to hope this isn't a speech from experience," Peter said as he gave Neal a wary glance. "In any case, when Sara talked to the curator in the private collections department, he said that it was nothing to worry about, just a new employee who had forgotten his employee ID number."

"That sounds suspicious," Neal said.

"Sara and I thought so too," Peter said. "So we were going to look into the backgrounds of the newest museum employees when we found a familiar, short, bald janitor in glasses, who I feel confident has no record of employment there, with a photo of the man trying to enter the private collection."

"Mozzie?" Peter nodded as he opened his briefcase and handed Neal a picture. "This looks like the guy in Mr. Campbell's picture."

"I think it is; unfortunately, we don't have enough evidence to do more than interrogate him, and we couldn't find him in the museum after we pulled up the employee records."

"What are you going to do then?" Elizabeth asked.

"Well, I think that I'm going to back to the museum in a few hours after all the employees should have left because I think if our thief wants to try to steal the gems, he's going to do it tonight."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"Well, I don't think that he really forgot his employee code; I think he was trying to distract Sara and I from the gems because there was only meant to be one person watching the display. The employee codes change at midnight, and we announced when the museum was closing that the pieces would be moving to another city next week. Therefore, it's his last chance to do it."


	8. Chapter 8

"We're both working late tonight, huh?" Peter asked Elizabeth as they both started looking for their coats and shoes in the entryway after they finished dinner. Peter could only seem to find one shoe.

"We picked the wrong professions if we wanted consistently normal hours," Elizabeth said with a laugh as she tapped his shoulder with the shoe he hadn't been able to find on the floor.

"Good thing we love our jobs then," Peter smiled as he took the shoe. "Though at the moment I'd like to put this curse business to rest. Even though I'm skeptical, I'm tired of hearing about it. You know a pen exploded in my pocket earlier, and it just happened to be when I came across Mozzie."

"I was wondering what happened to your shirt. Well, I'm sure once you catch this guy everything will go back to normal," Elizabeth said as she reached down to pet Satchmo who had followed his owners into the entryway, "Satch, you be good. Take care of Neal while we're gone."

Not long after the Burkes left, Satchmo padded his way back into the living room and lay down on the couch next to where Neal's arm hung limply from the couch. Satchmo's fur against his palm brought Neal out of what had been a deep sleep, "You're my company for the evening, huh?"

Neal pulled himself up into a sitting position and looked down at the coffee table. Lacking its normal cleanliness, the table was strewn with various objects, most purely for Neal's benefit: a box of tissues, a partially filled glass of water, two pill bottles (an antibiotic and a fever reducer), a note from Elizabeth explaining that she and Peter would both be home in a few hours but for him to call if he needed anything, a sealed ziplock baggie with dog treats in it (which Satchmo had not failed to notice), and finally the photo Mozzie had taken of the thief.

Neal slowly moved to get a treat out for Satchmo as he looked expectantly up at the young conman, "I'm the one that's sick; why am I getting things for you?"

Nevertheless, he continued to pet the dog as he tried to focus his attention on the man in the photo. Although Neal couldn't quite place it, there was something about the photo that made him slightly wary. He tried to think if he had ever seen the man before, but his mind was cloudy and trying to focus was making his head hurt. But, the more he tried to think about the man, the more certain he felt that he had never met the man. Pushing aside that thought, Neal looked at the museum in the background of the photo. He felt sure he was missing something. Unfortunately, his musing was cut short by a coughing fit.

When it ended, Neal leaned back into the couch and closed his eyes for a moment, and he became acutely aware of how sore and dry his throat was. There wasn't enough water left in the glass on the table even to swallow another fever reducer, which, he reminded himself, he should probably also do. He opened the pill bottle that was sitting next to the photo and began to shake the contents into his hand, only to realize there was only one tablet left. He vaguely remembered Elizabeth saying something about stopping at the store later. He set the tablet on the lid of the container, picked up the glass, and began to walk towards the kitchen. But as he did, Satchmo began sniffing the contents of the coffee table and licked up the tablet.

"Satchmo, no," Neal said hoarsely as he began wrestling the tablet out of the dog's mouth. When he accomplished this not-so-pleasant task, he held the tablet up out of the dog's reach. "Satch, what did you want to eat this for? One treat wasn't enough for you?"

He held onto the tablet as he opened the ziplock baggie to give Satchmo another treat, "This is more the gourmet cuisine you were hoping for, huh?"

Satchmo ate the treat but sensed Neal's disapproval and stalked back to the corner. Neal walked into the kitchen, threw away the now unusable tablet, and went to the sink. He refilled his glass of water, and then ran his hands under the cold water and ran them down his face. He then took a wash cloth and held it under the water as well and wrung it out as best he could, assuming it was the best he could do until the Burkes came back.

Neal languidly pulled himself back onto the couch and lay the cool washcloth on his burning forehead. He closed his eyes and began to try to go back to sleep. But his thoughts kept flickering back to the photo on the table beside him. After awhile, drowsiness overcame him and he fell asleep once again. However, his inexplicable anxiety followed him into his fevered dream.

Three statues sat alone on an expanse of sandy terrain, their gem set eyes glowing with an eerie and unnatural intensity. As Neal began to approach one, it shifted its position so that it was just beyond his grasp. He attempted to approach each of the others in turn with the same result. Frustrated, he collapsed on the sand. As he did, the sand blew aside and the ruins of a long uninhabited building became slightly visible. Neal began to scrape more and more sand aside, trying to find what lie beneath. As he did, the statues formed a circle around him, their eyes glowing even brighter than before as the light in the sky had begun to dim. Their presence provided no comfort but without the unnatural light of their eyes, Neal would not have been able to see at all. Although Neal had begun to shiver against the night sky of the desert, he continued his seemingly sisyphean task as the wind continued to blow the sand back to where he'd brushed it aside. Finally a great gust of wind blew enough away to reveal an opening. Neal approached it slowly, aware that the statues were sliding along the sand a short distance behind him, and pulled himself inside. The sand nearly filled the room to the brim of the window he had just climbed through, but with the eerie light cast by the statues, he could just barely make out faint fingerprints tracing the wall. The fingerprints were a pale red suggesting that there had been blood on the fingers.

"Is someone there? Hello?" Neal asked, after glancing around the room and seeing nothing other than the statues hovering outside the window he had just climbed through. When his question received no answer, he moved closer to the wall. As he moved closer, the wall seemed more familiar. He understood eventually that it was the wall in the museum.

As Neal carefully studied the fingerprints, a man, without having made a sound, appeared before him.

"I see you're admiring the walls I built to guard my love's treasure," The man said.

"Who are you?" Neal asked. He felt as though he knew without asking but the answer didn't come to him.

"Someone not to be toyed with. So I would suggest that you leave the statues alone. Please understand that my curse is real; it will follow you in and out of your dreams," he said. Then he gestured for Neal to look down beneath where the fingerprints were. A bloodied hand was almost entirely covered by the sand. He began brushing the sand away to reveal the body beneath. It was Peter.

Neal jolted awake, shaking, clammy, and disoriented. He wasn't sure if he had been unnerved by the dream or was merely shivering. Regardless, he sat up and pulled the blanket close around him noting that despite the antibiotics that he'd taken earlier, he somehow felt much worse. He tried not to let the image of Peter's pale, lifeless face linger in his memory as it did little to improve how he felt. _It was a dream; the curse isn't real. Don't start thinking like Moz. ___

"I hope your friend forgives your disbelief," The man from his dream whispered softly. The specter-like figure was standing across the room, barely visible.

Neal blinked and rubbed at his eyes and the man faded from view as Satchmo began barking frantically. Did Satchmo see him too?

 _Peter_ Neal thought weakly. He felt that he needed to warn him...of what exactly, he wasn't sure. He pulled himself up groggily towards the coffee table. He felt dizzy and uncoordinated. But a sudden single-mindedness forced him to search for his phone and attempt to call Peter. However, after Neal dialed Peter's number, the phone rang and rang. When Peter's voicemail finally picked up, Neal was in the entryway holding the phone in one hand as he pulled his coat on with the other. He dropped the phone as he pushed Satchmo away from the front door, which the dog had been stoutly blocking. He managed to open the door then picked up the dropped phone, shakily walked down the now icy steps, and looked for a cab to hail.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been following this, sorry about the extremely long delay between chapters. But I do have most of the next chapter of this written, so I think I'll have it up in a few days. And I'm thinking that the next chapter will most likely be the penultimate one.

Unable to read the meter, and unable to do anything else, Neal reached into his coat pocket and handed the cab driver perhaps too much money. The back of his mind dimly rationalized that it was karmic payback from somewhere. Then, as he attempted to get his bearings, trying to keep in mind that he’d been to the museum innumerable times before, Neal fought for breath against the chilly night air as he climbed the snow covered steps up to the entrance. 

When he reached the front door, he reached for his tie clip, then, remembering that he was wearing a long t-shirt and sweatpants, and no tie, he pulled a spare one out of his coat pocket. He barely tapped the door with his tie clip before it clicked open. This puzzled Neal because it really ought to have taken much more than just his tie clip to get into the museum. 

Nevertheless, he peered through the front lobby, and finding it empty, ran into the galleries. What Neal would have normally thought of as a private evening viewing of the museum was perhaps diminished by the fact that the color in all the paintings swam before him, significantly distorting the images, and the statues all seemed to be moving. He kept closing and reopening his eyes in the hopes that everything would be still when he opened them to no avail. 

Neal leaned against the wall as he came to the entrance to the next gallery and tried to take a few deep breaths to steady himself. He never should have left the Burke’s house the way he felt, and he knew it. But there was nothing to do about that now. 

Then as he crossed into the weapons gallery, Neal blinked wearily as he saw two men, or at least he thought it was two -- it was hard to tell with the dizzying swirl of motion-- at the far end of the gallery moving across the tile, parrying erratically at the other with swords. The men paused for a moment when they saw Neal and one of the swords dropped to the floor with a clatter of the blade and a clang of the hilt. 

“Neal!” Neal’s gaze lifted from the dropped sword to see that the now swordless man was Peter. “Get out of here!” 

The other man paused briefly, but didn’t lower his sword, as he studied the difficult to interpret, but certainly meaningful, looks being exchanged by Neal and Peter, “Friend of yours?” 

“I...” Neal started but the words ‘I dreamed that a long-dead, possibly fictitious architect killed you’ sort of stuck in his throat. “I was worried about you.” 

The concern was currently proving to be a valid one as the other man made to slash at Peter’s exposed arm and shoulder.

“Peter!” Neal shouted as he moved closer. Peter swiveled to the side, seemingly barely missing the sword’s edge. Neal leaned over the floor and grabbed the unintentionally discarded sword. The hilt was jewel encrusted, and had Neal been thinking more logically, he might have thought to ask why Peter had taken a sword from the museum’s display as it wasn’t something Peter would do. 

Unable to fully comprehend what was going on, Neal wasn’t sure whether he should be relieved or worried when Peter took the sword away from him and shooed him back towards the wall. Both swords were raised again and as the men circled one another, the jeweled hilts cast a greenish gold glow against the darkened walls. Neal leaned against the wall and watched until a pale blue light danced across the sleeve of his coat. 

For a moment, Neal stared, uncertain where the new hue had come from. Then he looked down and saw gems rolling across the floor. Trying to stay away from the swordplay, he crawled across the floor and picked the gems up. He held one up and surveyed it as he heard worried sounding but indiscernible shouts. Hurriedly, and without much thought, he put the gems in his coat pocket. 

Neal turned around to see Peter running over to him, worry etched into every line of his face. Then Neal looked up and saw a smear of red lingering on the white wall between two jousting suits of armor. He thought, though wasn’t positive, it was where Peter had just been standing. He swallowed hard as firm hands pressed against his shoulders, and he heard Peter say,“I do appreciate the concern, and the help, but I think you should be more worried about you right now.” 

As Peter tried to look Neal over, Neal ran his hands all over Peter, frantically looking for signs of injury. All he found, before Peter clasped his hands together and held them that way, was a long rip in the sleeve of his suit jacket, “Neal, I’m fine.” 

Peter steered Neal back towards the wall behind which his opponent now lie unconscious and sat down with him. Neal leaned against the wall and started to slide down it to the cool tile, not far from being unconscious himself. 

As Neal held his head in his hands, hoping that that might make everything stop seeming slightly sideways, Mozzie and Sara appeared in the gallery’s entryway. He listened to their following conversation with Peter, wavering between trying to follow it and just letting the world slip away. 

“Neal?” Mozzie and Sara both asked, with a mix of surprise and concern, as they looked from Peter to Neal to the unconscious man. 

“What’s he doing here, Peter?” Sara asked after a moment. 

“Honestly, I think he was trying to help. And he did, actually,” Peter said shaking his head, “But I also think he’s completely delirious.” 

“Do you want us to go out to the van and find Jones and Diana and let them know that you knocked this guy out?” Sara asked, gesturing to the other swordsman. 

“They’ve been listening in,” Peter said, tapping his watch, “but if you could keep an eye on Neal and our unconscious thief for me while I go find them.”

“Well, I’m ready if he wants to start something,” Sara said as she pulled a baton out of her purse.

“Thanks,” Peter said before pulling himself up and starting to run down to far end of the gallery and on towards the entrance. 

“Peter...” Neal said in what was meant to be simply a sound of worry but came out as more a broken sob; he was still unconvinced that Peter had come out of the duel unscathed.

“He’s coming back,” Mozzie said as he sat down next to Neal. “Hopefully sooner than later. Being in a museum after hours, and not pulling some kind of heist, does things to a con-man.” 

“You’re not worried about the curse anymore?” Sara asked as she leaned nonchalantly against the opposing wall, holding her baton over the unconscious man. “And I was just starting to think you might have a point with the whole thing.” 

“Now that we’re returning the statues to Egypt, the curse should lift on its own,” Mozzie replied. 

“Neal, do we ever have a story for you later,” Sara said as she glanced back at Mozzie. 

“It involves a damsel in distress,” Mozzie started to explain. 

“Yeah, you,” Sara said dryly. 

“An unfortunate number of a beetles,” Mozzie continued to which Sara gave a nod of agreement. “The expert discovery of the missing statues, a great fire, and epic romance.” 

“And a lot of hyperbole,” Sara added when Mozzie finished. “We weren’t even there for the fire.” 

Neal, unsure what Mozzie and Sara were talking about, had zoned out of the conversation and was focusing again on the faint red imprint on the wall, “Make sure he’s okay, Moz.” 

“Who? ...The Suit?” Mozzie asked, as he eyed Neal quizzically. “Neal, he just went to find the demi-suits.” 

“And he looked fine to me,” Sara added as she gave Neal another concerned glance. 

“Just make sure,” Neal insisted as he collapsed onto Mozzie’s shoulder.


	10. Chapter 10

When Mozzie found Peter an hour later, he was nursing his right arm against his chest, as he leaned against the hospital’s reception desk. It was still sore from his impromptu duel, and it was doing nothing to improve his temperament as the uppity receptionist declined to provide any useful insight on either the whereabouts or the well-being of Neal.

He grimaced, as he finally decided that against his better judgment, because so far his judgment was the less he moved his arm the better, he ought to flash his FBI badge at her. Shortly after he deposited his badge on the counter, the receptionist started making a hasty and abashed effort to find information, and Mozzie approached him warily.

“I thought you didn’t like hospitals,” Peter said. To his credit, Mozzie really did look like he wished he were anywhere else, but he came up the reception desk anyway. Mozzie stopped short in his reply as the receptionist, quite unhelpfully, informed him that Neal was not yet in a room.

“I don’t. But Neal was very adamant that I check on you,” Mozzie said as he gave Peter a thorough once over. “Take off your coat.”

“What? Why?” Peter asked as he started to pull it off anyway. “It’s almost as cold in here as it is outside.”

“Just testing a theory,” Mozzie said as he watched and waited. Peter winced as he pulled the coat down over his arm. He had thought that his opponent had grazed his shoulder, but not that he’d drawn blood. Apparently that was not the case, as a thin trail of it ran from his upper arm down to his elbow.

“Neal may be able to tell one of us ‘I told you so’ later.’ Go have tetanus prevented or something,” Mozzie commented dryly.

It didn’t look like it was a particularly serious cut, but it was still bleeding. And, besides, he thought Mozzie might have a point about tetanus. Those swords were easily almost a thousand years old.

Whatever Mozzie’s exact qualms about being in the hospital were, they didn’t stop him from leading Peter around to the E.R. There Peter found out both where Neal was and that his arm needed a very large butterfly bandage or a very small number of stitches. Due to an advertised inability to bathe properly with the bandage, he chose the stitches.

As the doctor worked on the stitches, Mozzie started to ask him how exactly he had ended up dueling in the weapons gallery, “It just seemed more Neal-esque than Suit-esque. Duels have that romanticized quality he admires so much.”

Peter gave a short laugh because the reality was, if it hadn’t been for Neal, that duel never would have happened. He, Jones, and Diana had been staking out the main entrance of the museum from across the street for maybe two hours when Diana had shook his shoulder and pointed across the street at a man that was, by this point, halfway up the steps, “I don’t think that’s the thief we’re looking for.”

As the figure glanced to the side as he briefly stopped to catch his breath, Peter saw to his utter dismay, the tell-tale sign of limp, dark brown curls and two day old stubble. Neal didn’t look at all like himself, between the strange lack of style suavity and the dazed expression frozen on his face before he went to work on the museum’s door. But it was still definitely Neal.

“No, no it’s not,” Peter said as he ran out of the van and chased after Neal to the best of his abilities on the ice and snow covered sidewalk. To his surprise, when he got to the museum entrance, the door opened without the use of the FBI’s specialty access. Clearly, the thief had already gotten past the museum’s security system. Not wanting to know what would happen if a feverish, possibly delirious Neal found the thief first, Peter ran from gallery to gallery, clearly choosing a different path than his partner as he saw no sign of him. 

As he entered a room filled with weapons from the world over, a man he dimly recognized as the one from Mr. Campbell's photograph appeared. Before he had a chance to do anything, the man had pulled two medieval swords from the display and thrust one into his hand as he shouted, “En guarde.” 

Now Peter had never taken a particularly keen interest in fencing, but it was soon apparent that, fortunately, his opponent hadn’t either. Peter sparred and circled, but mostly circled for long enough that when Neal wandered into the hall, he had thought for sure Neal had gone a different route that might lead him to another member of the FBI. Although he didn’t doubt for a moment that Neal could still manage get in trouble, he'd been relieved that the only threat that he knew of was the one he was sparring with. But somehow Neal had still managed to find it. 

As he took in Neal’s dazed and lost expression for a moment, he thought he really needed to get Neal out of there. As he started to turn away from Neal, he saw a specter like figure looming against the wall. That couldn’t be there, right? 

He lost his grip on his sword as he yelled at Neal to get out of there. When he looked back over to Neal, the figure was gone, but Neal, completely ignoring his advice, proceeded to do the exact opposite and picked up the sword and headed back towards him. He vaguely heard Neal say that he was worried about him in answer to some unasked question and wordlessly let Peter lead him to the wall. Peter took a deep breathe in as he took the sword from Neal. If he wasn’t sure before, he was now: Neal had to be delirious. 

No sooner had he started circling the thief again than Neal was crawling across the floor right beside them. Peter saw a brief glint in the eye of his opponent that suggested he was going to strike Neal, helpless and on the ground. With some hidden strength he didn’t know he possessed, he barrelled forward and hit the man’s forehead with the side of his blade before running over to Neal. 

“And he was just so out of it, Moz. He wouldn’t stop asking if _I_ was okay,” Peter finished as the doctor was telling him that he hoped their friend was okay but he really needed Peter’s attention to explain what to do when the stitches were to come out. Mozzie just shook his head, because he didn’t know what to say or because the doctor had scolded them, he wasn’t sure. 

As they walked through the maze of the hospital, or at least it seemed that way to Peter, Mozzie turned to him, “Now what did this spectre-like figure look like? Was it more of, a classic bed sheet ghost, or an imprint of the man, it once was.” 

Peter closed his eyes, cursed under his breath, and then turned to to Mozzie. He had thought, for some reason, that this part of the story had not been voiced aloud to the resident conspiracy theorist -- it’s evidently difficult to keep track when one’s skin is being sewn, “I’m not sure that happened. And I don’t want you to read too much into it. Let’s just find Neal.” 

Mozzie continued asking endless questions as they continued wandering the halls of the hospital -- which Peter mostly ignored but didn’t try to stop because they seemed to be keeping a strange, uncomfortable expression from crossing Mozzie’s features. Finally, they found El sitting in a chair across from the bed that Neal was lying on. She smiled up at them and handed Peter a coffee, “Moz, if I knew you were going to still be here, I would have gotten you something too.” 

“Thanks, Mrs. Suit. But I think I’m going to take my leave,” Mozzie said as he gave Neal a hesitant glance. 

“Moz?” Peter asked as he sat down next to El. 

“I’ve had a much larger dose of hospital today than I wanted, but I know Neal wouldn’t-- didn’t --leave when I was here,” Mozzie said as he stood frozen in the doorway. 

“Oh Moz, we’ll be here, and he won’t know you aren’t,” El said as she went over and placed a hand on Mozzie’s shoulder. “You can come back tomorrow.” 

“Besides, you and Sara both need to give a statement about finding the stolen statues. I’d really like to hear the whole story myself, but I think it would be best if it was told when everyone was lucid enough to understand it,” Peter said with a slight nod at Neal, though the length of the day and the persistent ache of his arm was starting to catch up with him. 

After Mozzie had left, Peter turned to El, “How’s he doing?” 

“Better,” El said simply, then paused a moment to collect her thoughts. “It was... not good before. They had to drain fluid out of his lungs. Honestly, he might have needed to be here even if he hadn’t followed you to the museum, though I’m sure that didn’t help. And after they did that, they gave him something to help him sleep. He was really... agitated. And he just kept repeating your name.” 

“Huh,” Peter said. “When he basically tackled me at the museum, it was like trying to get an octopus off. He seemed to just know something was off. Which I suppose he wasn’t entirely wrong about.” 

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to know he earned you some stitches,” El teased. 

“Probably more pleased than he has any right to be,” Peter said as he leaned his head against the wall. The next few hours were spent dozing uncomfortably against the hospital wall, with a brief interruption of a nurse telling the pair of them that it was long past visiting hours. In all honesty, it probably had been when he and Mozzie had left the E.R. though Peter had not really thought about it. He mumbled something incoherent through El’s hair as he discovered that she had fallen asleep on his shoulder before flashing the nurse his FBI badge. 

The next time he woke up, it was to Neal mumbling in his sleep. Peter carefully disentangled himself from a still sleeping El and pulled his chair closer to the bed. As he did so, he realized Neal wasn’t entirely asleep. His half-opened eyes fell squarely on Peter and opened wider, “Peter. You're here.” 

The relief in Neal’s voice was almost painful. Peter took Neal’s hand in his and whispered to him, “Neal, I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere.” 

Neal gave Peter’s hand an appreciative squeeze before his eyes fell closed once again. Peter, grateful that Neal had seemed to be lucid, leaned gratefully back against the hospital wall and watched the sun begin to rise with Neal’s hand still in his, hoping that somehow it would anchor Neal. Neal and delirium were not things he liked to see mixed.


	11. Chapter 11

Faint laughter rang in Neal’s ears as he slowly opened his eyes. Peter and Elizabeth were sitting in the chairs near the wall working intently on a crossword puzzle. He just lie still and watched them as he took in his surroundings. He felt like it was all familiar but hazy. He thought Peter and Elizabeth had both been there for a while, both holding his hand. Mozzie and Sara’s voices echoed distantly. They had both been here too, but he wasn’t sure if it had been at the same time. 

At the moment, the room was dim, but not dark, suggesting that the curtains had been pulled but it was still light outside. There was a distant feel of chaotic energy coming from the hallway which suggested that he wasn’t too far from the nurse’s station. The faint scent of tulips wafted over him as he reached for the glass of water sitting next to him and then tried to push himself up to sitting. 

The glass of water fell onto the floor as he was jerked back by what he realized was a set of handcuffs. He already had them off the bed rail by the time Peter had made it across the room. He gave Peter a disapproving glare, “Really?” 

“Not my idea. Believe me,” Peter said as he wiped the water off the floor and went to refill the glass. He set the glass back down in front of Neal as he took the seat next to the bed. “Drink that.” 

Neal watched Peter suspiciously as he took small sips of water. The lines in Peter’s face showed signs of tension and weariness, which Neal realized almost definitely had something to do with him being here. As upset as he was about the handcuffs, he decided Peter really deserved the right to explain. 

“Neal, somehow, even when you’re delirious, you manage to go off book with things,” Peter sighed as he reached into his pocket. Then he held up a small black box; if Neal didn’t know better, he would have thought it was a ring box. 

Actually, he really didn’t know better, “Peter, what will El say? She’s right there, you know.” 

Elizabeth didn’t say anything, but she had her hand over her mouth, giggling at the two of them. Peter shrugged them both off with a look of annoyance and opened the box, which Neal now noticed had FBI emblazoned in small letters on the top, before setting it in front of Neal. It appeared to be the gems that had been forged by the FBI. 

“Why are you showing these to me?” Neal asked as a foggy memory of blue light being cast against a silver surface sprang to mind. The cogs in his mind were spinning rapidly, putting together what Peter was about to tell him. 

“You stole them, though I’m positive you don’t remember doing it. Now, I pointed out to everyone that you were working with the FBI, the gems weren’t real, and that you were delirious. And yet, they still refused to let you be here unrestrained once they found those in your coat pocket. Now the museum’s doing a thorough inventory of their collection, and let’s just say it’s probably for the best that you have to stay here for another day or two. Because you can’t go anywhere else.” 

“Of course,” Neal said, trying his best to look put out although he was currently having trouble imagining himself moving. He ached everywhere, and he was having trouble gathering his thoughts. “So in the museum...I know I was there...” 

“That’s questionable,” Peter muttered. 

“But I’m kind of fuzzy on the details. Can you fill me in on what happened?” Neal asked. 

“Well, some of the story has to be told by Sara or Mozzie, but I’ll tell you what happened in the museum now; then you should probably get some more rest, seems to be the only thing that’s doing you any good,” Peter said, rubbing his hand along Neal’s shoulder. “This is the first time you’ve been completely lucid when you’ve been awake.” 

“How long have I been here?” Neal asked, realizing that the concept of time had sort of been eluding him. 

“Almost two days,” Peter said, wincing slightly. 

“And you felt the need to destroy an arguably already patchy outfit on my account? I’m touched,” Neal said casually, gesturing to Peter's unkempt hair and rather rumpled shirt. Then much more quietly, he added, “You really didn’t have to stay.” 

“Yeah, I did,” Peter said, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “I would have stayed anyway, but ever since we left the weapons gallery, you’ve been, well, really protective of me. You asked Sara, Mozzie, El, and at least one of the nurses to check on me.” 

Neal closed his eyes for a moment and let the disjointed memories of the past few days congeal, some of his heightened concern for his partner coming back to him. Then he said, “The thief. He slit your arm with his sword,” and added sheepishly, “or, at least, I thought he did.” 

“He did,” Peter said, rolling up his shirtsleeve revealing the stitches as Neal grinned. Then, keeping his tone level, he said, “Now any idea why you were chasing a thief through a museum when you should have been sound asleep on my couch? Normally I’d be angry about this sort of thing, but from what Dr. Casey tells me, your fever was too high for you to have been thinking rationally, so I’m really just curious.” 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Neal said before he was overtaken by a sudden coughing fit. Then with Peter’s hand firmly gripping his shoulder, his voice a little more ragged, he said, “I’m not sure I’d believe me.” 

“Well, that might be a first,” Peter said, his eyes lighting with a smile. “But try me.” 

Neal, after taking a few more sips of water, told Peter everything he could remember about his dream. Then in an strangely uncertain manner, Neal looked up at Peter and then shook his head, “I was just sure that there was something off about the museum wall in the photo you left on the table... you don’t have the photo with you do you?” 

“No, I don’t. I can bring it by with me later tonight if you want,” Peter said. 

“Probably better than if I tried to go solve this mystery myself right now,” Neal said, laughing lightly. 

“Yeah, I think I’d feel a lot better if you didn't. It’s bad enough when you go rogue when you aren’t delirious,” Peter said. 

***  
A few hours after Peter had left, insisting that Neal needed to get some proper rest, without him and El there to distract him, Mozzie and Sara stopped by. 

Neal gently prodded them into telling the story of what had happened before they had found him succumbing to the museum’s floor as he gratefully accepted the herbal tea that Mozzie had brought for him. 

“I was just finishing up some paperwork for the audit that Sterling Bosch was doing on the pieces in the private collection, when Mozzie came to meet me at the museum,” Sara said. 

“I was going to tell her how to get to Sunday,” Mozzie said. “Sans sonnett even.” 

Neal blinked, mildly surprised, “Moz, that’s where you actually live. Well, mostly.” 

“From Thursday to Friday,” Mozzie said. “Well, when I’m not at Monday.” 

“And when you aren’t at June’s,” Neal supplied. Then after thinking for a moment with his eyes closed for a moment, “Having your girlfriend over to your own house, that’s big of you.” 

Even though Neal was sure he had, Mozzie acted as though he didn’t catch any trace of sarcasm in that last statement, looking at Sara, Mozzie said, “I certainly hope you do.” 

“I wish I wasn’t about to say this, but I really do,” Sara said, sounding slightly annoyed. “Of course, since you broke on this, I have to too.” 

“A matter for another day,” Mozzie said. “For now, we ought to tell Neal about the fire.” 

Sara gave a slight sigh of relief before giving Mozzie an amused glance, “And about how you’re terrified of beetles.” 

“It’s perfectly reasonable to be afraid of scarabs gathering en masse when there are cursed statues on the loose, so to speak,” Mozzie said, a shadow casting over his eyes. 

“As we were walking away from the museum, first we noticed the FBI van doing surveillance. We didn’t worry too much about that really. Then as we got a few blocks from the museum, where Mozzie was going to give me the first set of instructions,” Sara started. 

“I couldn’t _just_ tell her how to get there,” Mozzie said in response to Neal’s caustic glance. “You need to be cautious about these things.” 

“So you were walking because Mozzie refuses take a taxi so close to a tourist attraction?” Neal asked. 

“Well, after the whole medallion debacle you guys told me about, I’m not sure he wants to take a taxi anywhere,” Sara said. “But anyway, as we were walking, we started to notice a trail of beetles in the sidewalk. I didn’t think much of it at first, but Mozzie...” 

Sara just shook her head, half laughing and half closing her eyes in apparent disbelief. 

“They were everywhere. Swarming like a proverbial plague,” Mozzie said. 

“I wouldn’t say they were swarming, but there were enough of them that I thought it was odd. So with him still trembling on the sidewalk,” Sara said with a nod to the side towards Mozzie, “I followed them to a reasonable distance from a parked car, where a disgruntled man was yelling something about statues in Arabic into his phone.” 

“Unaware that you know some Arabic?” Neal asked, nodding along drowsily. He was doing his best to follow the story without falling back asleep. He took several cautious sips of the herbal tea, hoping it would help. 

“Those two years in college apparently weren’t for nothing,” Sara said, grinning. “But it seemed that our thief had left two of the statues and a case full of beetles with an Egyptian man that lives in the area.”

“Using the Egyptian man as a fall... guy and driving up the street value... of the authentic statue, in one move,” Neal said, grinning brightly. He was still fighting sleep, but he felt more awake. 

“Impressed?” Sara asked. 

“I might be if he hadn’t been.... so careless at the museum; I need to see the picture Peter has again, but if he left an employee record there and was... using gallery wall storage space, like I suspect he was, it’s going... to be easy enough to find the real gems and the remaining statue. Also, I’m not sure I understand the beetles,” Neal said, slowly stringing his words and thoughts together between coughing fits. Sara leaned down to brace him, giving him a few worried looks. 

“There was a note on the case our thief put the statues in saying that they needed to be returned to their native and sacred land or a plague would befall New York,” Mozzie said, moving warily towards the back wall, as far from Neal as possible. “It was but the beginning.” 

“I _wish_ I could explain them better than that,” Sara said. “Unfortunately, a rational explanation hasn’t come my way yet.” 

“We called the Suit, and he sent some unknown Suits out to us,” Mozzie said. 

“Then, once we explained what was going on, they told us to go back and give a fuller report to Jones and Diana,” Sara said. “Then, as we were walking away, we heard a loud popping sound of glass catching on fire.” 

“Apparently setting a fire inside the car was the Suits’ best idea for getting rid of the beetle infestation,” Mozzie muttered. “The poor Egyptian man and his car.” 

Neal nodded in agreement, infinitely glad that he worked with Peter, Diana, and Jones who were all too smart to have done something as rash as that. 

“It did get rid of the beetles,” Sara offered in a weak and half hearted attempt at coming to the FBI’s defense. 

“What about the statues?” Neal asked. 

“I will grant that they took those out first,” Mozzie said, waving his hand circularly as a light tap sounded on the door of the hospital room. 

“Are we interrupting something or just missing a retelling?” Peter asked warily, as he and El poked their heads around the corner. 

“You’re in luck, Peter, we just got to the end of the story,” Sara said. 

“Good,” Peter said as he handed the photo to Neal. Then in response to Neal’s slightly dazed look, he said, “I’ve heard this story four times, and only once officially.” 

“You’ve all been the highlight of hospital staff entertainment,” El said as she pulled two chairs away from the wall and closer to the bed. 

“A tale of cursed... statuary would be somewhat scintillating,” Neal said as he gave the photo a few cursory glances, a diminished twinkle blossoming in his glassy eyes, “And if the FBI hadn’t already caught the thief and weren’t about to find the inlaid gems and the authentic statue...” 

“The statue’s value would have skyrocketed,” Peter finished, as Neal nodded. Then looking down at Neal with a knowing smile, “You know where the statue is?” 

“Look closer... at the photo, right next...to the door to the private collection,” Neal said. “You almost can’t see it. I just ...looked at it for so long...” 

“There’s a slit in the wall. You think there’s an opening there, for more storage space?” Peter asked as Neal nodded. “I’ll put Jones and Diana on this.” 

*** 

Peter blinked blearily. He thought he might have heard his cell phone ringing, but he didn’t feel particularly motivated to answer it. Neal was fine. The case was closed. To the best of his knowledge, the curse of the Kouroi hadn’t come to fruition. He then realized that even if he had wanted to answer his phone, in the unlikely event that the plague or some other ill had befallen New York, he was currently incapable of moving. 

He had, apparently, spent from exhaustion, fallen asleep on the guest bed along with Neal. And now, Neal’s sleeping form was pinning his left arm to the bed. Peter rolled his eyes. Leave it to Neal to complicate his life when he wasn’t even awake. 

There was a faint tap on the door followed by El asking, “Hey hon, are you or Neal awake?” 

In a vain attempt to not wake Neal up, he gave what came out as an affirmative grunt in response. 

Neal stirred, rolled off of Peter, and looked up, looking helplessly disoriented until he saw Peter. Relief washed over his features and he relaxed back against Peter’s side. 

Peter sat up and tousled Neal’s hair, “Sorry that the view out our window just leads into our neighbor’s garden.” 

“I’ll try to reign in my disappointment,” Neal said lightly.

El stood in the doorway, smiling, before clearing her throat. “Diana just called to say that the museum finished authenticating the statue and the gem insets; it’s being sent to the Egyptian Museum next week along with the forgeries. No need for you two to come in today; they want you both to get some rest.” 

“Both were real?” Neal asked, though it was more of a statement. El nodded. “Knew it.” 

Elizabeth gave Neal his antibiotics before giving Peter some Ibuprofen, despite his protests that he didn’t need anything. 

After swallowing his medicine, Neal gave El a long calculated looked, “Elizabeth...” 

Peter and El, unused to Neal starting a thought without completing it, gave him quizzical, prompting looks. 

“Elizabeth, you didn’t... you didn’t kiss me on the forehead last night, did you?” Neal asked, stringing the words together quickly as Peter started to stare at the space between them uncomfortably. 

“No, sweetie, I didn’t,” El said as she sat down on the edge of the bed. “Why?” 

“Just a dream then,” Neal said, seeming to think it over as he stared down at the comforter. 

“A dream?” Peter prompted. 

“A beautiful, dark haired woman kissed me on the forehead,” Neal said, and then he hesitated for a few beats before continuing, “...then told me that the curse wouldn’t claim us now. It just felt really real. But I guess it’s still the fever. Come to think of it, I think she said something about the statue being returned to their rightful home.” 

“That is how Moz said the curse could be broken,” El said with a slight giggle. 

“Maybe he was right,” Neal said. He was trying hard to ignore the lingering sensation of lips ghosting over his forehead like a gentle breeze. He pressed his eyes closed again and tried to find his memory of the half dream. He remembered now: the woman, who, to his credit, didn’t look unlike Elizabeth, had a small blue diadem that matched the eyes of the kouroi; a tall man trailed behind her. 

“Please don’t tell me you believe in curses now,” Peter said with a groan. 

“Curses would make life more interesting,” Neal said.

“Because our lives are so dull without them,” Peter said. 

“I’ll leave you two to debate this one,” El said as she made her way out of the room, wondering mildly if Peter could provide Neal with a better explanation for his dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoever has put up with the fact that I started writing this two years ago and is still reading this a) You rock and b) Thank you!
> 
> (Everyone else that's reading this story rocks too!)
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> P.S. If you caught my Hank/Jill from Royal Pains shipping, you're my favorite.


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